Lavender
by MidnightEverlark
Summary: "This is HC7. It's a mild pain killer and growth stimulant, more commonly known as Lavender. We don't make a habit of using it because of its unpredictable side effects, but in this case we're making an exception." When Katniss spends a night in the hospital of D13, she certainly wasn't expecting such a... passionate encounter with someone who she thought hated her. Hijacked!Peeta.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I'm so sorry it's taking so long for the next chapter of _Those Blizzard Months_. Here, have a nice, smutty one-shot while you wait. :)

Warning: rated M for a reason! Contains sexual acts of questionable consent. Don't like, don't read.

What do you get when you mix a dominant Hijacked!Peeta with a lonely, drugged-up Katniss? This.

Let me know if you'd like to see it continued. :)

**Lavender**

The wipe that the nurse uses to sterilize my skin is cold. She swabs a patch on my upper arm, her expression nearing boredom. It's late. Her shift probably ends soon. I might even be her last patient of the day.

"This is HC7," she says in a near-monotone. "It's a mild pain killer and growth stimulant, more commonly known as Lavender." She shakes the small vial of violet-tinged liquid in front of me before drawing it up into a syringe. "It will speed your healing. We don't make a habit of using it because of its unpredictable side effects, but in this case we're making an exception."

I yawn behind my hand. Honestly, I could care less what drug they use on me. Since I arrived in Thirteen, I think I've been stuffed full of more medication than they had all together back in Twelve. It seems to be their solution for everything. Fever? Medication. Insane Mockingjay? Medication. Homicidal ex-fiancé? Medication.

The nurse begins to list side effects, assuring me that I'll likely see very few of them. "The worst of them only show up with larger doses," she says, plunging the needle into the flesh of my arm. I wince at the sharp pain. "But just in case, I'm required to tell you the whole list." She flashes me an apologetic smile and I inwardly groan. "Dizziness," she starts, "Disorientation, a strong susceptibility to suggestion…"

I raise an eyebrow at this.

"Vomiting, migraines, mild temporary amnesia, sexual arousal –"

I nearly choke on my own tongue and she hurries to remind me, "That's only for the heavier doses. You'll probably be fine."

After that, I stop listening.

When she's done chattering, the nurse sets the tray of medical equipment on the counter, saying, "The doors lock automatically in five minutes. It's for your safety."

Of course. I am, after all, in the psych ward. Have to keep their little Mockingjay contained, don't they?

She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I wander around the little room. It's typical of Thirteen, containing a cabinet, a counter, a bed, one light and nothing else. I wait for the heavy click that means I'm locked in for the night. Then I do hear a click, but it's not from the lock. It's the door opening again. I decide the nurse must have forgotten something.

"Hello, Katniss," says a voice. My muscles freeze. I couldn't turn around if I wanted to. It's not him. It can't be him. And yet…

"Peeta?"

The moment the name leaves my lips, hands clamp down over my hips. A gasp gets stuck halfway up my throat, but before I can suck in a lungful of air – to what, scream? – I'm set down again. I've been spun to face the door, which is closed once more, and holding me at arm's length is the person I least expected. The last time I saw him was a month ago, when he screamed at me from his place strapped to the hospital cot. But the doctors told me he was contained in his room, three levels away. It _can't_ be him. And yet it undeniably is. The cinnamon-honey-dill scent of him hits me in a dizzying waft of thick, warm air. I am unable to do anything but gape up at him, taking in the rumpled hair, the familiar jaw, the dark circles under his impossibly blue eyes.

My head swims. Suddenly, I remember about the medication. Was hallucinating one of the side effects? I curse myself for not listening more carefully.

And then Peeta's lips descend on my throat, yielding to a hot, wet mouth. Hands, followed by arms, curl around my torso, lifting me onto my toes. I am pressed to a body I know well, held by arms I've found solace in many times before. It is a hallucination, then. The real Peeta wouldn't hold me. He'd yell at me or push me away or try to kill me again. For a moment, I'm disappointed that it isn't real. But then it doesn't matter, because that hot mouth finds my pulse point. My eyes close involuntarily.

"Good," hallucination-Peeta says, and one of his hands slides into my hair. His fingers comb through the still-damp locks, tugging just enough to send a cascade of pleasurable shivers through my scalp and down my spine. I can't stop a whimper from slipping past my lips. Then his arms tighten, and I draw in a sharp breath as I hear the crackle of plastic. Peeta draws a syringe from the small counter behind him, filled with a familiar purple fluid. "Hold still," he instructs, but I struggle, trying to escape the grip that has suddenly become uncomfortable – there's a sharp pinch in my arm –

And then it's as if someone has flipped a switch in my brain. What was I just thinking about? What am I doing? My thoughts feel sluggish, as if they're muffled by a thick, heavy blanket. I think I was doing something but I can't… I don't…

Someone is fumbling at the back of my head. Something soft presses lightly against my eyes, encircling my head, and when I lift my hand I feel fabric. A blindfold. Why am I wearing a blindfold? My breathing speeds. What's going on? Where _am_ I?

My train of thought falters as I feel a pair of lips brush against my own. A warm breath puffs against my cheek, and when I part my lips, I taste the faintest trace of honey on the air.

The hands drop away from the blindfold's knot and go to rest on my sides. "Relax," says a voice, and immediately, I do. I know that voice. _I do?_ It's Peeta. _Yes, Peeta… but he's hijacked, isn't he? He hates me._

"Don't think," Peeta says softly, and my mind clears. What was I so worried about? It's just Peeta.

He lets out a breath. "It's hot in here," he says nonchalantly.

It is. I frown. Before, I didn't notice it, but now the heat feels oppressive. I shrug uncomfortably.

"It'd be cooler if you took off your clothes," he says.

He's right. My hands find the hem of my sweater and I pull it over my head. The motion disturbs the blindfold and Peeta is quick to readjust it. Only after I drop the sweater to the floor do I realize that my t-shirt stuck to it. I am now standing before him in only a bra and my pants. After a moment's consideration, in which the heat of the room grows exponentially worse, I pop the button to my jeans and let them slide down my legs. I kick them aside.

_What am I doing?_ asks a voice in the back of my mind.

"What are we doing?" I echo.

"Shh." I feel one of Peeta's fingers light on my lips. It vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. "Follow me."

My legs move without my consent, allowing Peeta to guide me by the elbow. My knees hit something – the mattress, I think – and he gives me a gentle push. I fall onto the bed with a giggle. _A giggle? Since when do I giggle?_

A few moments go by, in which I give my head little shakes in an attempt to clear it. Somewhere in front of me, there's the sound of cloth against cloth. Some second later, Peeta's weight settles above me, pressing me down into the mattress, and I sigh as I rub my palms over his back. I find bare skin there. He must have undressed, too.

"We're going to play a game," Peeta says, and I can hear a mischievous smile in his voice.

"What kind of – " I start to ask, but my question is cut off by his mouth. His hot, soft tongue prods the seam of my lips and I part them willingly, giving him permission to trace the contours of my mouth. His tongue slides over my teeth and pushes up against my own and I melt into the mattress below me. One of Peeta's hands is braced beside my head – I can feel the dip in the mattress – but the other roams over my belly and sides, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The tip of his tongue tickles the roof of my mouth and I give a shallow gasp, stuck halfway between a laugh and a moan.

Abruptly, he pulls back. I lean up, searching for his mouth, only to find it gone. The blindfold is becoming irritating, and I scowl as I raise my hands to remove it.

"No," Peeta scolds. "Leave it on."

My hands drop back to my sides as if they're made of lead. "Yes, Peeta."

_Yes, Peeta? What the hell is wrong with me?_

"Good girl," he praises, and a flush of happiness rises in my cheeks.

The voice in the back of my mind shrieks indignantly, but I ignore it.

"Like I said, we're going to play a game," Peeta says calmly, and his hand finds one of mine. He pulls it up over my head, and a second later I feel another strip of cloth, this time around my wrist. It tightens until it's almost painful. Then Peeta takes my other hand. "It's a pleasure game," he continues, and for reasons unknown, my pulse begins to pound at my temples. In a moment, both of my wrists are bound to the bed frame above my head. "Here's how it works." Now Peeta is moving down the bed, his hand sliding down my calf until it reaches my foot. He makes quick work of binding my ankles to the foot of the bed, leaving me completely vulnerable on the mattress. I wriggle, trying to move. I can't. My breath catches in my throat.

_What's going on?_ demands the voice. _What am I letting this happen?_

The very tips of his fingers begin to trace patterns on the bare skin of my legs and pleasurable shivers spread through my body. "You can't see me. You can't move. Is that right?"

"Yes, Peeta," I answer, but I'm distracted by my thoughts.

_Why am I letting him do this? What is he going to do?_

Peeta chuckles throatily, and both of his hands go to rest on my head. He begins to massage my scalp, tugging gently at strands of my hair until a tiny moan slips from my lips. "Shh," he says again, placing a kiss to my forehead. "Be calm."

The frantic questions in my mind settle. Why does it matter what he's going to do? It's Peeta. I trust him. He can do whatever he wants with me.

Peeta's lips turn up in a smile against my skin. "Better." He leans back. "Now. You can't see me. You can't move. But are you comfortable?"

I think about it. "Yes, very." And I am. The hospital room was too hot with my clothes on, but in just my underwear, it's pleasantly warm. The mattress is soft below me and Peeta's weight, settled over me once more, is welcome.

"Good," he whispers. His lips brush mine again, but he leans away before I can get a full kiss. I give a whine of protest. Then his teeth close gently around my earlobe, worrying it, waking the nerves within it. I'm surprised how good it feels. He gives the spongy nub a quick suck, then moves to give the same treatment to the other ear. With every motion of his mouth on my skin, a wetness builds between my legs. If I'm being honest with myself, it was building since he first pressed me into the mattress. Peeta nibbles his way down my throat, finding the place where neck meets shoulder and nipping at the sensitive skin there. I give a breathy moan.

His head lifts. "Are you ready to play the pleasure game?"

"Oh," I breathe. "Yes, Peeta."

Peeta's hands skim over my sides, lingering a moment on my stomach, and then go to my breasts. He palms me through my bra and my back arches slightly, pressing them into his hands. "What do you want me to do?" he asks, and when I don't respond immediately, his fingers find my taut nipples and pinch. A bolt of pleasure shoots from my breasts to the pulsing spot between my thighs. "Tell me," he commands.

"I want you to kiss me," I gasp, fighting to concentrate as the panging in my breasts fogs my thoughts. "I want you to…" I think of _all _the things I want him to do and my cheeks burn. I can't say it aloud.

"Katniss," Peeta says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends yet another shiver of pleasure through me. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

The words are forceful, as if each one is pounded into my skull as it's spoken. The urge to do as he says builds in me until it's too much, and I blurt, "I want you to touch me."

"Be specific."

"I want you to touch my breasts."

Peeta pinches at my nipples again, squeezing and rubbing at the mounds through the bra. But it isn't enough. I squirm and arch, trying desperately to get the stimulation I need. A frustrated growl rumbles in my chest.

"Is there something you want, Katniss?" Peeta asks, his voice full of laughter. "I'm doing what you asked me to."

"I…" I pant, my body wriggling helplessly. "I want… I want you to touch me… without the bra."

"That's a start." The mattress moves below me as Peeta leans down to whisper in my ear. "But you'll have to be _much_ more specific later on."

Before I can ask what he means, his hands slide behind my back to unhook the clasps of the undergarment. "Hmm," he hums. "What have we here? Can't take this off while your hands are bound, can we?"

I whimper. I want him to take it off. I need him to take it off. I need the feel of his large hands on my bare breasts. I need it so much it scares me.

"Please," I beg. "Please. I need…" I can't seem to articulate that thought.

I hear two pops, one on either side of me, and then the fabric of the bra slides away from me. I give a sigh of relief as my nipples are exposed to the air. They tighten until the panging is almost pain, and I need, I _need_…

"I hope you weren't too attached to that bra," Peeta says playfully. "Now, what did you want me to do?"

My desire spurs me on, and this time, I have no trouble saying, "I want you to touch my breasts, Peeta. Please."

And he does. _Oh, _he does. His hands cover the soft mounds. His fingers flex. His thumbs find the straining peaks of my nipples and flick over them, again and again, until a deep, sharp, sweet ache blossoms in each of them. The ache feeds the one between my legs, and I find myself swinging my hips from side to side, searching for friction there. Peeta kneads my wanting flesh like dough, worshipping the unimpressively sized globes as if I'm a goddess. He tweaks my nipples between thumb and forefinger, rubbing them until I know they must be flushed a deep pink. Ticklish waves of pleasure spread through my upper body like a glorious flower opening, but I still want oh, so much more.

As if reading my thoughts, Peeta presses an ardent kiss to my lips before saying, "What else do you want?"

"More," is my instant response.

"More of what? Be specific."

Once again, I'm hesitant. And once again, the feel of Peeta's hands on my breasts overrides my nerves. "I want you to put your mouth on me," I say quietly. My voice shakes, though from fear or eagerness, I can't tell.

"And?" Peeta prompts gently. "Tell me, Katniss. Tell me exactly what you want."

The words, like before, are forceful. I feel as if they are worming their way through my skull, into my mind and taking root there. _Tell me exactly what you want. Tell me exactly what you want. Tell me exactly what you want._ I resist for a painful ten seconds, then give in with a shudder. "I want you to suck on my nipples," I say, trembling with desire at the mere words. "I want you to lick them and… Oh, Peeta, please. I want to feel your tongue on me."

Peeta strokes my hair. "Very good."

My fingers and toes curl into the sheets in anticipation as I feel Peeta move down my body. For one heartbeat… two heartbeats… three… I am tense with expectancy. Then his mouth, hot, wet and slippery with saliva, closes around the pebbled tip of my right breast. A loud "Aaah," rises from my throat. Just as I asked, Peeta's tongue sweeps over each of the puckered nubs. He lavishes them with attention, now sucking, now licking, now sending exquisite jolts through me with playful nips. I can't control my noises anymore. I sigh and mewl and moan my appreciation, and this seems to spur Peeta on. His hands work at the yielding flesh of my breasts while his mouth worships the puckered peaks, one after the other.

At the apex of my thighs, a warm fluid seeps from me. I can feel its slickness when I twist my hips. I long to move my legs – squeeze them together? Open them wider? I don't know – but the bindings at my ankles make that impossible. With every tug of Peeta's mouth on my breast, the throbbing between my legs grows worse. And all at once, I want something else.

"Peeta," I whisper. "Peeta, Peeta."

He gives my right breast one last, long suck, pulling his lips back bit by bit until the nipple pops free. The air, so cool in comparison with his mouth, wafts over the damp point. I shiver in satisfaction.

"Was that good?" he asks, his voice rough.

"So good," I whimper. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Katniss." He kisses me on the mouth, taking a moment to trap my tongue between his lips and suckle at it as he did my breasts. The sensation goes straight to my core, sending the throbbing there to another level. When he pulls back, I already know what he's going to ask. "What else do you want?"

This time, I don't hesitate. "I want you to touch me."

"Where?"

"Between my legs." My hips roll, inviting him to venture between them. I close my eyes under the blindfold, because it's just too much effort to keep them open. "Touch me," I beg. "Play with me."

The effect my words have on Peeta is instantaneous. I feel a shudder go through his body, and then his hand is slipping into my panties, between my folds, stroking up and down along the most private place in my body.

"Yes," I sigh. "Oh, yes."

My juices make the motion easy and he presses his face into my neck to growl, "You're so wet, Katniss." His fingers bump over my most sensitive place and my hips snap up. He chuckles. "Tell me," he says again.

"I want you to touch my clit," I say, and I'm surprised at the wave of pleasure that goes through me as I say the words. Why was I so afraid to state my desires before? Saying them now gives me a thrill that goes deep within me, stirring hidden things. It feels like I'm doing something forbidden, or something secret. I love it. "I want you to rub me."

Peeta's fingers move over the pearl between my folds, back and forth. Pleasure sparks in me, trembling in my vulnerable thighs. "Like this?" he asks.

"Rub in circles," I gasp. "And faster."

His tempo increases, his fingers moving in small, quick circles over the bundle of nerves, and my back arches. My own fingers have never felt this good. I allow my moans to pour from my mouth unrestrained.

"Tell me how that feels," he orders.

"So good," I all but sob.

His honey-scented breath fills my ear. "And it will only get better."

Peeta pinches the pulsing nub between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it as he did to my nipples, then releasing it just as I think I might combust. He uses one hand to spread apart the petals of my femininity and the other to pleasure me. He alternates between rubbing and tapping, snapping against my clit with rapture-inducing flicks. My body twists and writhes, the bindings digging into my ankles and wrists. I can't move, can't even quell the ache in my own aching breasts, and the frustration only adds to my desire.

Abruptly, Peeta retreats.

"Don't stop!" I cry.

"Patience."

There's a tug on my panties, and then a ripping sound, and they slide away from my body.

"Those were getting in the way," he explains. "Now."

He lays his full weight on top of me, aligning his lips with mine, and kisses me forcefully. His tongue invades my mouth and his teeth sink into my lower lip. He's panting when he pulls away.

"You have to do exactly as I say, or this…" His hand finds its way between us and one finger tickles my clit. "Stops. Understand?"

"Yes, Peeta," I say.

"Tell me you'll do as I say."

"I'll do exactly as you say."

"Who's in control?"

"You're in control of me, Peeta."

The tickle between my folds increases in pressure until I throw my head back and groan.

Peeta growls, "What a good girl you're being. Do you like being controlled by me?"

"Yes," I say, mildly surprised. I do like it. When Peeta is telling me what to do, I can let go. I can stop worrying. I can forget the stress of my life. When Peeta controls me, all that matters is the pleasure.

"I like it, too," Peeta says, and to prove his point, he presses his hips down over mine. His manhood pokes into my stomach and longing slices through me. But Peeta pulls back. "Not yet," he chides. "First… I'm going to taste you."

Under the blindfold, my eyes flash open, eyelashes brushing against the dark fabric.

"I'm going to untie your hands," Peeta says. "Remember – do as I say."

"Yes, Peeta." My lower stomach flutters.

First one, then the other of the knots at my wrists is loosened. My hands slip free, but I dare not move them yet. Not until I'm told to do so.

Peeta moves back down the bed, stopping when he's between my legs. "Touch your breasts," he says.

With a moan of relief, I allow my fingers to play across my own chest, tugging at the nipples and massaging the aching mounds.

"Stop," Peeta commands.

I freeze.

"Good. Keep going."

I brush my thumbs over the erect peaks, my lips parting as I sigh.

Peeta's hands slide up the insides of my legs. He thumbs open my folds, exposing me to the air, and my clit pulses intensely. I whimper. "Peeta," I say weakly.

"Hmm?"

"Please."

"You still have to tell me what you want," he reminds me.

I give myself a particularly hard squeeze. "I want you to run your tongue up my slit. I want you to suck on my clit. And I want your fingers inside me."

"See?" Peeta laughs. "It's not so hard to be specific, is it?"

"No," I agree. "Not so hard."

I still can't see anything, but I think I can feel him smiling softly up at me. Then he says, "Put your hands on my head, Katniss."

I do, and I feel curls of soft hair. I wind my fingers into that hair, preparing myself. Every nerve in my body sings.

The moment Peeta's mouth makes contact with my core, I let out a noise that's too loud to be considered a moan and too soft to be a scream. It's primal and unrestrained. Peeta places a kiss on my clit, nibbling at it with his lips. He lowers his lips to my opening, dipping his tongue a little ways inside me, and my sob of pleasure shakes my body. His mouth is slick with my juices, and when the tip of his tongue dabs at the hood of that sweet center of pleasure, my thighs tremble.

"Peeta," I moan, singing him praises with my shaking voice. "Peeta, Peeta, Peeta… Don't stop… Oh, so good…"

And then his lips lock around my clit. And he begins to suck.

I collapse, falling back on the mattress. I had been half-sitting-up before, but the muscles of my back can no longer keep me even partially upright. Hot pleasure courses through my veins, spreading from the tiny epicenter of pleasure that Peeta currently has in his mouth. He suckles me with a slow, delicious rhythm. I keen and he answers me with a hum. The vibration of his voice around my clit sends me arching so far back I think I'll break. But I don't care.

Peeta's skillful tongue twirls around the inflamed button even as he shifts. One of his hands comes up to where his chin is, and then he's sliding two fingers into me. My hands fist in his curls and I hope I'm not hurting him, but I can't let go. His fingers slide in… and out… and in, adopting the agonizingly slow rhythm of his mouth. And then, the next time they slide into me, he curls them forward, pressing a place inside of me I didn't know existed. Pleasure expands deep within me, sending my muscles twitching and my lungs heaving. I'm thrashing on the bed and he has to clamp a hand over my hip to keep me still, and his lips suck feverishly at my clit and his fingers press relentlessly into _that spot_, and it's too much, it's too much, it's too much –

I shatter, pleasure claiming me like a lightning bolt. My mouth is stretched wide open, but if I'm making any noise, I can't hear it over the rush of blood in my ears. My whole being pulses and pleasure like magnificent fire burns my insides, reducing me to ash and cinder.

When I'm able to move again, Peeta is kissing me. I kiss back, slowly, my muscles still useless after my orgasm. I lift my lead-heavy arms and wrap them around his neck before I remember that I'm supposed to wait until he tells me to.

Peeta places a peck on my nose. "Hold on to me." I tighten my grip. "Relax." Not a problem. My muscles are mush anyway. "Tell me how this feels."

I don't understand, and then Peeta's hand is between us once more, and I feel the tip of his manhood bump over my sensitive clit. I gasp, "Oh. Oh. Good."

He teases me for some minutes more, tracing my slit with his hardness, until a bit of my energy returns to me. I begin to grind into him, feeding my pleasure by undulating my hips to match his own. Peeta kisses me. He positions the head at my opening, then stops.

"Do you want this, Katniss?"

"Yes," I breathe without thinking. "I want you inside me."

That's all it takes. Peeta pushes forward with one powerful snap of his hips.

Agony. Ecstasy. Peeta fills me in a way that hurts, but it hurts so good. Something inside me broke when he pushed through, and though it burns, the pain battles with pleasure. He stretches me, and my walls tingle with pleasure-pain. I mewl, unable to decide if I want to stay as still as possible or start bucking my hips wildly.

Peeta decides for me. He draws back, slowly, and then plunges in again. Tears seep into the fabric of the blindfold, but moans slip from my mouth. I'm caught in a constant feedback loop of pleasure and pain. I squirm instinctually to escape the pain, which makes Peeta slide tantalizingly against my walls, sending pleasure through me. But when I wriggle my hips to increase the pleasure, the unaccustomed girth of him brings tears of pain to my eyes. I writhe and writhe. I can't stop. I don't know if I want to.

Peeta keeps up a slow tempo, allowing me to adjust to the sensation. It takes several minutes for my body to stretch to accommodate him. As those minutes tick my, excruciatingly slowly, the pain begins to fade. The discomfort is still there, burning with every stroke, but not nearly as present as it was. Peeta kisses both of my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, and finally my lips.

"Okay?" he asks.

"I think so." The echo of pain lingers in me, but pleasure is beginning to curl into my stomach in strong tendrils. "Yes."

"Good," Peeta says again, and kisses me one more time. This kiss is gentle, to match the calm roll of his hips, like waves on a shore.

Gradually, as my cries of pain are replaced by moans and sighs, Peeta speeds up. His hips begin to pump rather than rock. I rub my hands over the planes of his back in encouragement when I feel ready and he falls into a steady pulse, deep and rapid. My head falls back. It's a different kind of pleasure than he brought me with his fingers and tongue. It's deeper – _so_ deep – and carries more heat behind it, as if he's burning me up from the inside. The first kind of pleasure was sharp, honey-like in its sweetness. This pleasure is strong and heavy, like dark, bitter chocolate. I'm panting and sweating and more _full_ than I've ever been in my life.

I want to hitch my legs up around Peeta's waist, but my ankles are still tied to the bed frame, so I settle for lifting my hips to meet his thrusts. It soon becomes apparent that I'm not very good at it, but he doesn't seem to mind. His grunts mix with my moans in the thick, warm air.

"I have a confession to make," Peeta gasps. "I may have increased the dose of your medication."

"Oh," I say, not really registering what he told me. I'm too busy focusing on the swelling pressure that's building in my abdomen.

"I'm sorry about that," he says. "Really."

"Just kiss me, Peeta," I say, because I don't know what he's saying, and it can't be that important anyway. What's more important than the pleasure expanding inside me?

Our lips crush together with bruising force. Peeta's hips snap into mine, no longer gentle but passionate and demanding. Every time his manhood slips nearly all the way out of me, only to slam back in to the hilt, I cry out. This heavy pleasure, not sweet but strong, is crushing my lungs, blazing between my thighs and rendering the muscles of my legs useless once again. I feel myself contracting, clamping down on Peeta's hardness with every one of his thrusts. My body spasms, controlled not by me, not even by Peeta, but by some ancient instinct.

My orgasm hits unexpectedly, sending a shallow shriek up my throat as my back bows. I feel my own walls fluttering in ecstasy around Peeta, and soon he groans, stiffening over me. A moment later, his weight falls on me, crushing me down into the bed.

My chest heaves as I try to regain my breath. My muscles twitch, utterly spent. I don't think I could lift a hand if I tried.

I'm already halfway in the clutches of sleep when I fully register something:

_"We don't make a habit of using it because of its unpredictable side effects… Disorientation, mild temporary amnesia, a strong susceptibility to suggestion, sexual arousal… That's only for the heavier doses."_

_"I may have increased the dose of your medication."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! :) Since there was such an enthusiastic response to Lavender (thank ye kindly!) I decided to continue it. :D**

* * *

She's sleeping peacefully now. Her hair is loose, and strands stick to her flushed cheeks and slender neck. Her arms are flung above her head, though her wrists are no longer bound to the bed frame. I debate immobilizing her again, but quickly dismiss it. Her ankles are still tied, after all. She's not going anywhere.

I roll the small cylinder between my fingers. The glass is cold, and I swipe my thumb over the miniscule white lines that declare dosages. _I could inject her now._ The plastic cap slides off with a pop, exposing the wire-thin needle. The purple-tinted vials of HC7 are within arm's reach, lined up on the counter, no doubt left out by an absentminded nurse. I smirk. I have that nurse to thank for many things. If she hadn't forgotten to put away the tray of drugs and syringes, I never would have gotten my way with Katniss.

She stirs, and I stiffen instinctually. But she stills after a moment, her sigh lingering in the muggy underground air. It can get unforgivingly hot – or cold – in the dark corridors of Thirteen, and even from here I can see a sheen of sweat shimmering on her dusky skin. _Beautiful,_ something within me whispers, and, grudgingly, I have to agree. She was created for me, after all. Created to lure me in. To entrap me. To mesmerize me with her beauty and then strike. Every aspect of her is deadly. Her skin, pale pebble-brown like milky tea and mourning doves' feathers. Her eyes like silver smoke. Her hair, dark as night, dark as a mockingjay's wing. Her breasts like small apples, unimpressive in size yet soft and tipped with rosy buds. Beautiful, indeed. But I know the lethality hidden within those smoldering silver eyes.

Unless, it seems, she's drugged. Then her steel-cold eyes melt and her voice loses its icy edge and her violent ways yield to provocative obedience. She becomes soft and meek, small and trusting as a kitten. This is what Lavender does to her. A shiver of pleasure sweeps up my spine at the mere memory.

I know Lavender because it's been used on me. The doctors thought it might speed the process of my healing – physically, at least – near the time when I first arrived in Thirteen. I don't remember much of those first few days, but I remember Lavender. I remember the doctors patiently running through the list of questionable side effects every time it was administered to me, and I remember thinking that it could be useful. Temporary amnesia, susceptibility to suggestion… It could be _very _useful. And the sexual arousal was just the proverbial cherry on top. I remember planning how I could use the drug on Katniss. I could tell her to do anything, say anything. The twisted daydreams passed the time pleasantly. Or, as pleasantly as time can pass in this godforsaken hospital. I never thought I'd get to act on them, though.

When I realized I didn't have time to reach my usual hiding spot, I slipped into a hospital room. But instead of finding it empty, as I had expected, I found Katniss there, wandering her room in hospital garb. My immediate instinct was to attack, and I almost did. Until I saw the tray on the counter. I recognized the vials of painkiller, and I recognized the opportunity they offered. Which is why, instead of smashing the mutt's head against the wall while her back was turned, I greeted her. I trapped her in my arms and distracted her with a kiss to her neck while I reached for the syringe.

Yes, I could inject her now, and when she wakes I could mould her to my will again. See her crumble again. The images pour through my mind with dizzying speed, as they are wont to do nowadays, and tangle themselves in my thoughts. They pound through my head with no rhyme nor reason, bombarding me with conflicting memories.

_Katniss, going limp in my arms as the Lavender takes hold._

_Katniss, standing over me with a cruel smile and crueler knife._

_Katniss, held captive by four salvaged strips of cloth, writhing in pleasure._

_Katniss dancing madly in the ashes of my home._

_Katniss moaning beneath me. Katniss quivering and grasping at the sheets. Katniss calling my name._

I grip the edge of the counter hard, filled with equal parts disgust and desire. _She betrayed you,_ I snarl silently. _She acted like she loved you and then she tried to kill you. She's a mutt!_

"Mutt," I spit, agreeing with myself.

But then I look to the bed, where the mutt in question still sleeps, and a crooked smile pulls at my lips. "Look at you," I say, though she doesn't so much as stir. "You think you're so strong. You think you can beat me." A soft laugh bubbles up from my throat. "Look at you," I say again. "The great Mockingjay, brought to her knees."

Something compels me to step forward, and I stand over her. Her lips are parted slightly in sleep, and the urge to kiss them is strong. _Beautiful,_ she same voice sighs again, and I push it roughly to the back of my head.

But, once again, I have to agree. I stare down at this mysterious creature of death and beauty and a strange twinge of possessiveness aches in my chest. _Mine,_ the voice inside me snarls.

She's a mutt. A creature of darkness. But I tamed her. She was mine and she was overwhelmingly compliant, if only for a short, glorious stretch of time.

Katniss's fingers twitch, and I glance at the bed frame again. Maybe I should tie her hands, just in case. There's no telling what she could do if she got hold of something sharp, or heavy. But the strips of cloth I used to tie her wrists are gone, buried somewhere under the blankets. I slap the syringe down on the counter with a grunt of frustration and go in search of them. One fell behind the bed, and I retrieve it with a grimace. The other is peeking out from under the pillow.

I crawl onto the bed, jostling her small form, and reach for the frayed band of cloth. But then my eyes wander down her body and I freeze. The gray sheets are stained with a smeared trail of deep red. I don't understand. Did one of us hurt ourselves? Could she have somehow cut me without my realizing?

And then I do understand.

She was a virgin.

_A virgin._

I scramble off the bed so fast my prosthetic catches on the bed frame. I kick until it comes free with a painful jerk and I spring up, my chest heaving. The room rings with the metallic vibration of the bed frame and I see Katniss's eyes flick open.

_A virgin._

I claw at my scalp. Katniss is a mutt and a slut. She slept with me on the train and then went home and slept with Hawthorne in the forest. I saw the footage of them kissing outside the boarders of District Twelve. I know she betrayed me.

_But she was a virgin._

From her place on the bed, Katniss groans. One of her arms lifts laboriously and she scrubs at her eyes. I see her face contort, and then she pulls herself into a semi-upright position, squinting around the room. And then her eyes land on me.

I watch a plethora of emotions cross her face. They're gone as soon as they arrive and within seconds her features harden into what I can only describe as pure fury.

"You - !" she chokes, and she throws herself toward me. But her feet are still bound to the bed, and she ends up just tangling herself in the blankets. I watch her arms flail as she tries to free herself, hissing and spitting like a cat.

I open my mouth to say something cold or smug, something that will infuriate her even further, but the words that end up leaving my lips are, "You're a virgin."

She goes still with one last feminine growl. Her eyes fix on me, glittering with anger and – hurt? "I was," she spits, then rubs the back of her hand across her mouth as if the words burned her lips.

I don't respond, and I see her grow more uncomfortable. She watches me, then looks at the clock in the corner of the room – it's only midnight, hours from the time when anyone will come looking for her – and then looks back to me. "What?" she snarls.

I surprise myself again when I stride forward, press her shoulder until she falls back onto the mattress, and kiss her. She gives a little shriek, maybe of anger, and I wait for her to slam her palms into my chest or sink her teeth into my lip. But she doesn't. I smile and lean back.

"You can't be that angry at me," I declare, "Or you wouldn't have let me kiss you."

Instantly, she's flailing again, trying to strike me with her little fists. I easily catch her arms and straddle her thighs to keep her from doing any damage.

"Angry?" she screams. "I'll show you angry, you tricking little son of a bitch!" She struggles with all her might, which isn't much. "Let me go!"

"No," I say calmly, and I feel myself coming back. When I saw her virgin-blood, I felt as if I was slipping, and that quiet part of me rose from a corner of my mind, horrified at what I had done. Now, that part of me is fading again. Katniss bucks and squirms beneath me, trying to dislodge me, and I feel my pants begin to tighten. How easy it would be to take her again, right here. Right now.

But…

No. I can't. Not after I took her innocence just hours ago. That quiet part of me that grew strong when I faltered won't allow it.

But that doesn't mean I can't do something else.

* * *

I flop back on the mattress, energy spent. My chest rises and falls with deep pants. Peeta grins down at me and I send him my best scowl.

"Worn ourselves out, have we?" he says teasingly.

I twist my head away petulantly.

"Now, Katniss, don't be like that," he says soothingly. A finger trails along my cheek and I snap my teeth at it. He chuckles softly and the fiery prickle of blood rises in my cheeks. I'm naked, tied up and held in place by Peeta's weight. And he's _laughing _at me.

"You shut up," I threaten, and I hate how my voice shakes. "You just shut up. You're a…" It takes me a moment to think of the worst word I can. "You're a lying bastard!" I'm ashamed at the hot tears that slide down my temples, but I plow onwards, fighting to control my wavering voice. "You're a lying, traitorous bastard, Peeta Mellark!"

He just laughs again, his head swinging back and forth, and it breaks me. He's gone. My Peeta is gone. I should have known the moment he stuck me with the needle. But instead, I stupidly allowed myself to hope. I allowed myself to think that his gentle touches and soft words were real. That they were a sign that he was getting better. That he still cared about me, beneath his venom-laced malice and infuriating smirks. But now, free of the veil of drugs he put me under, I see the truth. He never caressed me, never cared about me. His soft touches were just a hallucination, fabricated by my crumbling mind.

_He's gone._

My eyes close, sending another round of hot, fat tears down my skin. My lips tremble and I press them together tightly before speaking. My voice breaks pathetically. "You _used_ me."

Abruptly, his laughter stops. There's a moment of silence, and then his weight slowly shifts off me. I'm too tired to even try to sit up.

"Are – " he starts, then cuts off. "Are you crying?"

"No," I snap, swiping at the trails of moisture with shaking hands.

"Katniss?"

I pause at the soft tone of his voice, peering at him between my fingers. He's kneeling beside me, a small frown creasing his forehead. His eyes are dark, pupils swollen from hijacking, but I find no cruelty in them. I go still with confusion and give a small sniffle, tears abating. Hesitantly, Peeta reaches out to touch my puffy eyes. I flinch and something blooms across his face. I've never been very good at reading people, but his expression is unmistakable: remorse.

_Don't,_ I scold myself. _Don't fall for it, Katniss. He's manipulating you._

But his probing fingers are so gentle and I'm so tired and I miss him, god I _miss_ him…

I find myself swallowing past the painful lump in my throat and lifting my arms, reaching for him like a child. He lets out a heavy sigh, some internal conflict raging in his eyes, and then gathers me up. My ankles are still bound securely to the bed and I whimper as the bindings bite into my skin. I give my legs a weak tug, but of course it's pointless.

But a moment later, the bindings loosen, then fall away one at a time. A shuddering sigh travels through me and I bring my aching legs together at last, pulling them up underneath me. Peeta draws a blanket around us and I clutch at it, shivering.

"Why?" he groans quietly.

I don't answer, too preoccupied by my sore limbs.

"Why?" he says again, and his forehead lands at the crown of my head. "Why can't I hurt you?" I feel a shudder go through him, as if answering my own, and his voice is tight when he says, "I want to. I want to hurt you. But I can't. Why? Why the hell do I care about you?"

I sniff shallowly in response.

Peeta begins to rock, stroking my hair, and I sag against him. I know this lull can't last. I know it's suicide. But some misplaced instinct is telling me that I should sleep, and it seems my body is following the suggestion. The clock says it's a little past midnight. Since I fell asleep after we… had sex, I only got a few hours of rest, and all the struggling and crying has only exhausted my further.

Peeta's warmth envelopes me like a cocoon, and the last thing I remember is the scent of cinnamon.

* * *

I wake alone on the bed again, but Peeta is still here. He leans against the counter, studying me with an indecipherable expression. I'm still naked, but at least this time a blanket is draped over me and my limbs aren't bound in an awkward position.

We stare each other down for a good minute before I look away. The clock says 4:11AM. Only a few hours before the nurses come and discover us.

And only four minutes before the doors unlock.

My gaze must flick to the door, because Peeta speaks. "That's right," he says, and his voice is once again the cool, controlled voice of the hijacked boy. But there's a sort of softness to it, one I didn't hear before. My heart begins to beat faster without my permission. _No,_ I tell myself forcefully. _Don't trust him. Don't hope._

"We're going out," Peeta continues.

It takes me a few seconds to register what he said. "Out?" I echo.

He nods and lifts a hand, letting the dim glow of the safety lights glint off the object in his grasp. A syringe.

I swallow thickly.

"I won't hurt you, Katniss," he says, starting toward me. "I promise. But this can be easy, or it can be hard."

I glance at the door again. Can I delay him four… no, three minutes until it unlocks? Can I escape? And if so, what do I do then? What happens if he catches me? He seems stable now – well, as stable as any insane person with a syringe can be – but who knows. He could attack any moment. My eyes lock on the needle he holds, once again filled with the purple liquid. Lavender. I remember – vaguely – how he used it on me last night. Of course, this train of thought only leads me to what I hallucinated he did afterwards, and my thighs involuntarily squeeze together. A heavy blush floods my cheeks.

Peeta reaches my bedside and I tense, my muscles readying themselves to bolt. My eyes flicker from him to the clock to the door. Less than three minutes. Less than three minutes and I can try to run. I'm about to jump from the bed when he speaks.

"Easy or hard, Katniss. What'll it be?"

I stare up at him. I thought I was ready to run, but now, I can't move. I open my mouth to speak, but I can't think of anything to say.

The Lavender seems to glow under the safety lights, and I find myself transfixed by it. I recoil from the needle, and yet… A memory fights its way to the surface.

_"What a good girl you're being. Do you like being controlled by me?"_

_"Yes."_

My blush only deepens at the recollection, and my mind wanders to stroking fingers and a hot mouth.

_Maybe,_ something within me whispers. _Maybe it wasn't so bad._ I push at the fragment of memory, retrieving more details, things I didn't remember until now. Smiles. Kisses. Peeta's fingers playing between my legs. His mouth on me. Here I had thought he simply injected me and then took advantage of me, claiming me and leaving me cold on the bed. I thought his caresses were imagined. Were they? I don't know. I don't _know._ I can't think. Could I allow that to happen again?

A cold shiver runs down my spine as I realize that _I could_. I could just let go, let Peeta inject me and use me, let him love my body… It scares me, but more disturbing still is the realization that it doesn't scare me as much as it should.

Peeta coughs and I jump violently, my neck cracking when my head snaps toward him. To my surprise, he's smiling. Did he see my blush in the dim light? Or my legs, pressed together under the blanket? "I'm glad you chose easy," he says.

"What are –" I begin, but it's too late. He's already taken a hold of my arm. I don't even have time to yell before the needle plunges in and my vision swims.

"No," I whisper. "No, no… n… ah…"

Dizziness overtakes me and I sway, but two strong hands hold my steady. I blink in confusion. Something just happened. Something _is_ happening, but I can't think of what. It dances at the edges my consciousness, taunting me, but when I try to remember it recedes. What was it?

_Something's wrong,_ I think urgently. But what? I give myself a quick mental once-over, searching for pain or some other indication of danger. I find only the fading dizziness and a slight twinge between my legs. That, and the blanket around me is draped over bare skin, not clothes. Apparently, I'm naked. Why am I naked?

I take deep breaths and lean against the nearest object to steady myself. It's warm and solid and… breathing?

"Peeta," I sigh, and an answering sigh lifts his ribs.

"Katniss," he answers, and a soft smile touches my lips.

He lifts me, blanket and all, and I readily wind my arms around him. My legs twine around his waist and I feel more than hear his gasp. I rest my head atop his and sigh. _Yes,_ I think simply. _This. I needed this._

"Katniss," he says again, and I shiver though I'm not cold. "Put your clothes on."

My arms and legs obey, loosening until I fall from his arms onto the bed, but I give an impatient sigh at the loss of warmth. I stumble over my own feet as I search for my clothes and giggle at my own clumsiness. _It's like I'm drunk,_ I think gleefully. I finally locate my pants and pull them on. Peeta finds my shirt for me, pulling it over my head, and then scoops up my panties and bra from somewhere under the bed. Both of them are ripped apart. He shoves them under the mattress with a shrug and this makes me laugh even harder.

"Quiet," Peeta murmurs.

I press a palm over my mouth, falling silent.

Peeta looks to the clock, then to the door. He links his hands loosely behind his back and bounces up on the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth as if he's waiting for something. No more than a moment later, there's a loud click.

He turns to me with a smile on his face, and I smile back.

"That's our cue," he says cheerfully.

"To do what?" I ask, but Peeta frowns, the smile vanishing abruptly.

He taps a finger on my lips. "Quiet," he says. "Remember? No words unless I tell you."

I nod obediently.

_No,_ whispers a voice in the back of my mind. _Don't…_

Peeta goes to the counter and begins to rummage around in something. He opens a drawer and pulls out a plastic bag, then begins stuffing it with something I can't see. I take a few steps to the left, craning my neck, and catch a glimpse of purple.

_No!_ shrieks the voice. I clap my hands over my ears, alarmed, but it doesn't do any good. _Don't! This has happened before, hasn't it? Hasn't it?_

The movement must catch Peeta's attention, because he turns, bag in hand. "Katniss? What is it?" He tucks the bag of vials and – _are those needles?_ – into a pocket and comes to me, tugging my hands away from my ears. "Tell me."

"This has happened before," I mutter, echoing my frantic thoughts.

"So what if it has?" Peeta brushes a strand of hair away from my face. "Listen to me, Katniss."

I listen.

"I won't hurt you."

I know.

"Will you do what I say?"

Images flash through my mind, too fast to catch any one of them. They blur into impressions: sweat-slick skin, a tongue probing my mouth, pleasure blooming in my abdomen. These things are connected to obedience.

I nod vigorously.

Peeta grins. His hand snakes down my cheek, down my neck, my arm, my side. It skirts across my hip, and suddenly his fingers are pressing at the crotch of my pants. A gasp sucks past my lips. Without any underwear, I can feel the imprint of his hand as if it's burning a hole in the fabric of my trousers. His fingers begin to move, rubbing me along the length of my slit over the pants, and my hips begin to dip and sway. I don't want his fingers outside my pants, I want them _inside,_ in my folds, in me. I grind against his hand, searching desperately for the stimulation I need, but he quickly withdraws.

I begin to protest, then bite the inside of my cheek. _No words unless I tell you._

"We're going to take a little trip, Katniss," Peeta says. He studies my eyes. His own are dark, and I wonder if he's as aroused as I am. "We're going to hide where they won't be able to find us."

I nod.

"Follow me. Don't say anything. We'll be safe before anyone wakes up." He murmurs these words against my temple, and I sigh. _They won't be able to find us._ These words resonate within me and I think I could weep from happiness. After all these months of constant scrutiny, all these empty days of fighting a never-ending enemy, and now it can be over. _Hide. Follow. Safe._

"Do you understand?" Peeta asks, and then adds, "You can talk."

"I understand," I breathe.

He tweaks my nipples through my shirt, making my knees go weak. "Let's go."

* * *

It took longer than I thought it would to get here. We crept through the hospital halls in the early hours of the morning, slipping into doorways to avoid the occasional nurse, and made our way to a supply closet. Being located near the tiny hospital kitchen, it contained packets of typical District Thirteen freeze-dried food and bottles of water. Peeta loaded us up with both, tying his jacket into a bag to carry them. Then we left the hospital through a side door, dashed through residential halls, climbed stairs and ladders. I was flushed and out of breath by the time we found our way into an abandoned section of Thirteen.

Peeta ignored the sign that said _KEEP OUT,_ easing the rusty door open with a wince. We stepped through and found ourselves in a world of dark, gray halls and mildew and dust. Peeta held my hand tightly, sliding his other palm along a wall and counting turns and doorways. He knew where he was going.

At last, when I thought my legs would give out, he counted the last row of doors – "… eight, nine, ten, eleven!" – and we arrived.

Now, as Peeta escorts me into the room with a hand at my back, I squint at the relative brightness. This room has dim light bulbs running along the ceiling, just off-center. They illuminate an exposed pipe that twists as it reaches the wall and disappears off into some other room.

It's obvious that someone has been here before, and often. There's a bed in the corner, a bit dusty but otherwise not unappealing, and the cold stone floor is softened by a multitude of bathroom rugs. A cracked bathtub stands in another corner, under a protruding faucet that I think is really supposed to be for a sink, and the walls are hung with old bed sheets. It's as if someone cobbled together a living space with what they could salvage without anyone noticing. It reminds me of some of the places I liked to hide, in those weeks before they rescued Peeta.

I forget my order not to talk. "What is this place?"

"Safe," Peeta answers, closing the door behind us. "They won't find us here."

"Did you make it?"

"Partly. It was already here, I just found it. I've been waiting for weeks, but no one has shown up to claim it. Guess they moved on. I just brought in some extra provisions, in case I needed to hide here." He spreads his arms, indicating both of us. "And here we are."

"Hmm." I'm already distracted, running my fingers over the surface of a three-legged desk. The fourth leg has been replaced with a broom handle. Resting on it are several sheaths of paper and charcoal pencils – Peeta's doing, no doubt.

He tosses his jacket full of supplies onto the bed and reaches in his pocket, drawing out the bag of Lavender and capped syringes.

_Lavender?_ I think, wondering how I knew the word. It's familiar. It's… it's… I frown in concentration. _It's a painkiller._

The words come out of my mouth slowly, as if they're made of molasses. "Why do we have painkillers?"

"Don't worry about it," says Peeta, but I frown again. I am worried about it.

"But," I begin, then stop. There's a battle going on in my head. Part of me wants to do as Peeta says. The other knows something's wrong. "But why do we need them?" I persist.

Peeta traverses the few feet to where I stand. "Looks like we might need a booster," he says gently. "I'm not surprised. I only gave you a little earlier. Hold out your arm."

I hesitate. My hands fist in the fabric of my pants and I take a step back, giving my head a quick shake.

"Katniss," Peeta sighs, as if he's dealing with a difficult child. Then one of his own arms snakes around my waist and pulls me to him. His hand slips up my side and cups my breast, and I can't help but take in a breath at the sudden warmth. His thumb flicks across the nipple and ticklish heat blooms in my chest. His other hand holds up the syringe.

"I can give you pleasure," Peeta says, and the words are a breath against the shell of my ear. "I want to give you pleasure, Katniss. I want to see you shatter. Over and over again. Would you let me do that?"

While he talks, he continues to fondle me, occasionally switching sides to play with the other breast. He tugs at my nipples through the shirt and massages me in a way that makes my skin pebble.

"Katniss. I asked you a question."

"Yes," I gasp.

Peeta pinches the puckered tip of my right breast until I'm squirming, then releases me. "Then," he whispers, "You'll have to let me inject you with this."

I look briefly at the vial, but Peeta's ministrations are making it hard to think. I know what he's saying, but I can't seem to form a response. In the end, all I can do is give a quiet moan and bob my head in agreement.

"Good girl," Peeta croons. He turns me to face him and fits his lips to mine. While our tongues reunite, his left hand slips under the band of my trousers and seeks out my slit. I'm already soaking, and his fingers massage me with ease, gliding teasingly across my clit. I barely feel the sting of the needle, but a moment later, I feel its effects. My thoughts slow, I'm accosted by dizziness and the pleasurable throbbing in my belly seems to thicken and grow in intensity.

Peeta waits until the dizziness passes and I stop swaying to pull his lips from mine.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Good," I laugh. "Really good. Kind of… heavy, but not tired. And I'm wet. God, I'm wet. And your fingers feel _so_ good, Peeta. Don't stop, okay?"

"I'm not stopping," he promises. "But you have to tell me some things."

"Okay," I agree at once. "Anything."

He pauses, and then a smile lifts his lips. "Anything?"

"Yes."

His smile grows. "Do you ever touch yourself?"

The answer pops out of my mouth without my even trying. "Sometimes, when I can't sleep. It never feels as good as when you touch me, though."

I wriggle my hips to show my appreciation, and in response, Peeta's fingers flick over my clit several times before returning to their journey up and down my folds.

When I open my eyes again – I didn't realize I closed them – Peeta is smirking. "All right. Katniss, we're going to play another game. It's a pleasure game, but this time, there are questions."

I groan in anticipation. The spark in my belly is slowly being kindled into a flame, burning me from the inside out.

"I'm going to ask you questions, and if you're a good girl and answer them truthfully for me, I'll let you come. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Peeta," I moan, desperate. His teasing fingers have barely touched me and already I feel I could burst. I don't remember how I got here, or why this is happening, but it can't possibly matter.

Abruptly, Peeta scoops me up and walks me to the bed, folding down the dusty top blanket before setting me down. "Take off your clothes."

I strip in record time, throwing my shirt and pants to the floor and exposing myself completely. My nipples tighten even more, if possible, and my clit throbs almost painfully in the cool air.

Peeta goes to work on my at once, crawling over me and lowering me to my back before taking one breast in his mouth. I let my head fall back against the pillow. My fingers run through his hair, keeping him in place, but he pulls back with a groan. "Katniss," he says.

"Peeta."

He gives my other breast the same treatment, licking until both nipples are painfully tight, then pulls me into an upright position. He arranges us so that he can lean against the wall, holding me with my back pressed into his chest. He pulls my knees apart so my legs form a cradle, exposing me to him. My pulse throbs in my temples and fingertips and I give a whimper of anticipation.

"Please," I whisper.

Peeta's middle finger descends into my folds at the same time that his lips attack my neck. I melt against him, my head lolling to the side to grant him better access. He spreads my folds with two fingers and taps at my clit until I'm shuddering in pleasure, then begins to rub in lazy circles. Pleasure expands within me, filling me like the slow spill of honey. It feels amazing, but after minutes of nothing more, I'm impatient. My hips twitch upwards, but instead of increasing the pressure, Peeta retreats. I cry out in loss.

"Remember," he whispers, "I'll only let you come after you answer my questions."

"Ask," I beg. "Please, Peeta."

The pressure returns and I sigh. Peeta works at my clit, alternately rubbing and flicking, just enough to keep my nerves buzzing and my mind pleasantly foggy but not enough to bring me close to an orgasm. His other hand goes to play with my breasts. "First question," he says. His hands stop altogether. "Did you ever have sex with Hawthorne?"

"Gale?" I puzzle, squirming for the loss of pleasure. "No, never."

Peeta's fingers continue their torturous attentions.

"Good," he praises. "Next question. Did we sleep together on the train?"

"We slept in the same bed," I sigh, temporarily losing focus as Peeta's fingers hit a particularly wonderful angle. "But we – oh… we never had sex. Ah!"

Peeta is grinding against my clit with the pad of his thumb, rewarding me for every word, and my hips rise and fall with the rhythm of his hand. He strokes me patiently and the coil in my belly tightens with bliss, pleasure extending up my spine and into my thighs in ticklish tendrils. I reach up and back, hooking my hands together behind Peeta's neck to keep myself upright. The motion makes my back arch and my breasts jut forward, and Peeta takes advantage of the new position by circling my nipples with the tips of his fingers, one after the other. He brings me closer and closer to the precipice until I'm so tight-strung that my muscles twitch and my chest heaves, and then he slows, allowing the pleasure to drop off to a low hum. I growl in frustration and I can feel his chuckle through my back.

"Patience, my kitten," he murmurs. "I'm not done with you yet."

I try to be mad at him for his teasing, but I can't. Not with his hand still massaging the inflamed button between my folds and his lips skimming the sensitive skin behind my ear.

"Next question," he says. His hips lift, pressing his hardness against my lower back, and we groan in unison. "I'll give you an easy one. Do you like this?"

"So much," I mewl.

Peeta's touch becomes demanding, flickering across my clit with dizzying speed. "Tell me," he commands. "Tell me what it feels like."

His dominance sends a fresh wave of pleasure fizzing up my spine and it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts. "Oh," I say, "Oh. Good. Warm. I feel so _empty,_ Peeta."

He hums in answer and a moment later, one of his fingers slides up into me. A moan slips from my lips as he adds one more and curls them forward, pressing into the spot that makes me vision swim with ecstasy.

"Thank you," I whisper weakly, because I know this is what I need. If he just touches that spot one more time, I _know_ I could shatter.

"You'll tell my anything, won't you?" he growls. "Anything I want. You never used to tell me anything. But now you will. You can't hide anymore. Tell me."

I moan weakly, unable to make sense of the words through the haze of pleasure, much less form a response, and snap my hips against his hand. His thumb presses hard on my clit and his fingers curl forward once, twice, and I'm gone. Pleasure rips through me, seeming to sever the muscles in my thighs, and a high, needy moan pours from my throat.

I slump back on Peeta's chest and he strokes my hair, allowing me to calm down.

And then he kisses my earlobe and breathes, "Next question."


End file.
